YUZU-YU FOR A WARM AND BRIGHT SOLSTICE
I recently bought an old house in Yamanaka for about the price of an economy car, and I’m gradually fixing it up. Last weekend, as I was preparing to dispose of some more 1970s faux-wood veneer, I saw an elderly neighbor, Mrs. O, walk by with a stepladder, and went out to say hello. She was on her way to pick yuzu for the solstice, when the public onsen will be filled with the fragrant yellow citrus. This annual yuzu-yu (yuzu bath) is a cheery reminder that the darkest days of the year have passed.
I grabbed a ladder, and called to my houseguest, Rabea, to join us (she had come from Tokyo to help dig a drainage ditch, and sort woodworking tools I inherited from the house’s former owner). Mrs. O was already up on the ladder reaching into the thorny branches and dropping yuzu to the ground, while her husband swiped at another part of the tree with a saw blade on a long pole. Rabea and I jumped right in, scrambling up the tree, fetching tools, sawing off dead branches—doing whatever the couple directed.
As we abandoned chaotic attempts to use taller and taller ladders, some fruit remained frustratingly out of reach. But yuzu tumbled from Mrs. O’s overflowing department-store shopping bag, and she insisted we take some to make jam—we hadn’t taken enough, and we must make more.
One of the things I love about living in Yamanaka is the way a sudden gift—of fruit, or fish, or mushrooms—can suddenly determine the day’s plans. That night, Rabea and I spent a few hours after dinner making yuzu jam (it’s marmalade, I guess, but everyone here calls it jam so I do too).
About halfway through peeling the yuzu, I decided to read several marmalade recipes, including this lovely one from Namiko Chen, but then we mostly continued to wing it. The juice stung our scratched-up hands (yuzu thorns had pierced our gloves), but as the jam cooked it perfumed my home. And before midnight we had several little golden jars lined up on the counter.
I brought a few jars to my neighbors, of course, and sent Rabea home with a few more. And I still have enough to spread on toast—or mix with hot water to make a warm drink—until the days get noticeably brighter.
HERE’S HOW WE MADE THE JAM…
We peeled 25 yuzu (a little over 3 kilograms, a little under 7 pounds) —just the yellow part, avoiding most of the pith. We slivered the peels, then quickly blanched them to remove some bitterness and set them aside. We put a strainer over a bowl, juiced the peeled fruit, and scooped the pulp into the strainer (it had too much goodness left to waste, more on that in a moment).
The seeds have lots of pectin that will help the jam set, so we bundled a handful of seeds in muslin tied with kitchen twine. We put the juice, blanched peel, bundled seeds, and 900 grams of sugar (about 4.5 cups, which happened to be all the sugar I had) into a nonreactive pot, and set it over low heat.
Meanwhile, we simmered the pulp (not bothering to remove any remaining seeds) in a saucepan with 800mL water (scant 3 1/2 cups) until it softened and broke apart, about five minutes. Then we strained this pulp-water into the main pot, mashing it around with a spoon to press out as much juice as possible, and discarded the pressed pulp and seeds.
We turned up the heat just enough to simmer the mixture gently, taking turns stirring it so it wouldn’t scorch, for about 40 minutes. Meanwhile we sterilized some (mismatched reused) jars. When the jam passed the plate test, we funneled it into the jars (using half a plastic bottle), and licked every utensil clean—the jam was too good (and hard earned) to waste a drop!
Wishing you a warm and bright solstice,
Hannah
p.s. To make your own yuzu-yu, or other citrus bath, just float some fruit in the bath!